


somewhere in between this moment and the end

by miss_sofia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, butchering canon like woah, petyr/varys if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-09
Updated: 2011-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9267524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_sofia/pseuds/miss_sofia
Summary: He’s no Stark but he can feel it, the darkness approaching, the cold in his bones, the wind that blows in the wrong direction, the sounds of the night piercing through his dreams (now not more than nightmares, never any less than pain).





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted in 2011 @lj.
> 
> I wrote this having watched the beginning of GoT and not having read any of the books so it's like 90% made-up with the help of a lot of googling.

“Ours is the fury!”, he proclaims besides King Robert; “Winter is coming”, mixed respect and disdain upon the arrival of Lord Stark; “Family, duty, honor”, barely a breath against Catelyn’s ears. Adapting, mutating, sticking to the winning side because, as the saying goes, you either win or die. His Finger past dropped with ease, nothing left but the title and the amusing - albeit not exactly accurate – story behind his nickname, and replaced with the wealthy bohemian façade of a man who cares for his money, his women, his liquor, and not much else. Lord Baelish feels safe this way. Not too safe - it’s not smart to be trusting in this day and age –, but comfortable enough in his self-constructed persona to move freely and orchestrate small games.  
  
That is, until he’s caught.

  
  


“Titan”, Lord Varys calls him in passing, a mention of his former sigil which makes him shudder involuntarily. He’s not a Titan anymore, the Titans were his father and mother and siblings, the Titans were lost and maimed and killed and extinct, stone heads served on silver plates to the highest bidder, gold falling from their pockets and naiveté dripping from their pores, for all they were inappropriately named. Petyr matches Varys’ smirk with one of his own, tries his best to suppress the flare burning in his eyes. “Have you been spying on me while I bathe again, eunuch?”

  
  


Petyr prays, prays to the Gods old and the new, prays to Death and to the Tree, prays to anything and everything, because it’s all the same to him. His faith is not sincere like the faith of many around him. He can’t afford to believe blindly, he can’t afford to trust, because trusting and believing means letting his guard down, means losing. But tonight he gets down on his knees, hands closed over his chest, and lets himself slip for a spare second, pours out whatever remains of his innocent faith in a moment of burning.  
  
  
The following morning, Varys doesn’t say a word to him, and Petyr silently thanks the Gods.

  
  


“Oh, the fall of the mighty”, no snarky retort, no mischievous tone, merely an offhanded comment, if not a mumble, from Varys’ lips. Petyr chuckles, dismisses it as usual banter, takes it lightly and dares the others to think more of it than it’s worth. No one else laughs, for Petyr is respected, and, in Kingslanding, respect and fear are one and the same.  
  
Petyr’s eyes once more betray him, the night sky blue flashing Titan red. Varys sees it, smiles instead of cowering, but Petyr holds his gaze, stares back, for looking away is no way to be powerful.

  
  


The women in the brothels serve him well, warm flesh and kind smiles and harsh bites when called for, endless options and limitless pleasure. He snaps his fingers, shouts obscenities, and two of them come to his side, touch him and carress him and love him until the night – or the day, whatever is closest, he’s not quite sure. The Realm burns around him, whether figuratively or literally he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, not now, not when there are no winners to follow.  
  
“The world is burning, old friend.” It’s Varys’ voice but Petyr’s eyes are shut this time and he doesn’t seem him, doesn’t know if he’s there or inside his head, doesn’t care. The whores don’t stop because they won’t stop until he makes them, they won’t stop unless he pushes them away, even if the flames consume their bodies and their souls. “The world is out there. It doesn’t burn in here.” The answer doesn’t make sense to anyone but him, yet it doesn’t make a difference because it’s an answer nonetheless and an answer is good enough.

  
  


After the rain comes shine, but the opposite also holds true, Winter coming to cast a shadow over Summer days. He’s no Stark but he can feel it, the darkness approaching, the cold in his bones, the wind that blows in the wrong direction, the sounds of the night piercing through his dreams (now not more than nightmares, never any less than pain).  
  
Knees bent in allegiance to King Joffrey, head down tilted towards Cersei, for he knows the true winner is her, the Queen, the lion, the Lannister. His voice says “ours is the fury”, but his eyes scream “hear me roar!”, the knowledge that it’s a Lannister kingdom now, that the lions will rule and that if he’s going to trust anyone, it will be a Lannister, because at least they pay his debts.

  
  


They declare mutual respect, the closest thing to a devotion Petyr is capable of. Letting his guard down, loosening his armor, showing he feels fear and admiration, stating he believes in someone else for their own and not their standing. His eyes are purple, toeing the line between southern blue and flaming red, the mockingbird giving way to something else. He doesn’t look away, he never looks away, but this time it’s not in anger or prepotence; this time he stares back into Varys’ brown eyes in something akin to pride.  
  
He gets a smile.

  
  


Varys is silent for the first time, defeated. He’s lost because he serves the Realm, and the Realm is lost, has been for long now, has been shredded to pieces in the game of thrones and crowns and swords and kings. There is no Realm anymore, there are no Gods, there is no use for a whisperer who’s not in it for the game.  
  
Petyr stands, flying from a side to another, always winning, always always winning, power running through him just as the fear burns his heart, serving not the Realm but the True King, whoever he may be. Yet, Varys’ loss feels like his loss, the loss of someone he respects, the loss of the one part of him that remained true to… something.  
  
He’s no longer a mockingibird caught in the spider’s web. His eyes flame red, his teeth bare, his skin is stone and his heart is fire. For he is Petyr, Lord Baelish, Little Finger, the last of the Titans, and he will win.


End file.
